This is Not a Test

I point to her and then I hold my hand out. Rhys takes the crowbar out of her face, a sick, awful sound that becomes a part of me as soon as I hear it. We cross the room slowly and a familiar scent floods my head with images, puts a bitter taste in my mouth, makes me want to tear my skin off …

I find my father on the floor, wedged between his desk and the wall. His eyes are cloudy, his skin is gray, his veins vivid, so visible. He’s on his back and his abdomen is wide open, but it’s been so feasted on, it’s hardly there anymore. What’s left of his insides are dried out, have cemented him to the carpet. He flails his arms uselessly but he can’t get up.

Lily did this.

I raise the crowbar over my head. I’ll finish this. Everything. But his teeth—they catch my eye. They’re perfectly white, clean. They’ve never sunk themselves into anything. He’s weak and his expression is sick with want. He moans at us. I lower the crowbar.

“Just leave him,” I whisper.

We go back upstairs. Rhys packs clothes and searches the house for supplies. I take the car keys and shove them in my pocket and my fingers brush over a crinkled piece of paper. I take it out and unfold it. My note to Lily. I stare at it. It’s been through as much as I have and the letters have smeared together, have mixed with dirt and blood.

Only a few words are readable now.

Rhys steps into the room. “Are you ready?” I stare at the letter. Can’t stop staring at the letter. He moves in front of me and brings his hand to my face. “Sloane, are you ready?”

I open my mouth but nothing comes out. He tells me he should drive. I give him the keys. The car starts on the first try and the gas tank is half full. He lets the car idle while I open the garage door and then I run back, jump into the passenger’s side. He eases out of the driveway and then we’re moving and we go by empty, broken houses, abandoned cars, and then eventually, the YOU ARE NOW LEAVING CORTEGE sign. We pass more dead along the way and they reach for us before they know we’re gone.

“Tell me what happens next,” Rhys says after miles of silence because he knows. He knows the brief moment where everything was certain—her, me, him—is over now and I don’t know what’s left anymore. I turn my gaze away from him, back to the window. I catch sight of something.

I tell him to stop and he stops.

A young dead girl limps across an otherwise empty road. She’s so little. She can’t be more than seven. Her ankle is badly broken but she drags her foot along determinedly until she finds herself at my window. She puts her hand to the glass and I do the same. Her palm is so much smaller than mine. She’s too young, too frail to break through what separates us but she stares at me with pure longing. Her eyes are so desperate.

I see them in her.

Lily. Grace. Every death I’ve ever known is in her eyes and they are looking out at me, all of them, reaching for me with more than just this animal need to consume. It’s more than that. I don’t know what it is, though. But I need to know.

“Sloane,” Rhys says.

“Wait,” I whisper.

I move closer to the glass, as close as I can get to it, begging her, begging Lily, begging Grace, begging all of them to tell me what’s left, to just tell me, while the girl pushes against the window, turns her tiny hands into tiny fists, begging me for a taste of—life.

My life.

Lily disappears. Grace. They all leave, they’re gone, they will never be here again. But the weight of what they’ve shown me is settling into my bones. I don’t know if I will keep it, but just in this moment, however brief, I feel closer to it than I ever have before …

The dead girl presses her face against the glass. She waits for me to tell her what’s next.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

For their love and faith in me: Susan and David Summers, Megan and Jarrad Gunter, Marion and Ken LaVallee, Lucy and Bob Summers, and Damon Ford.

For working hard to bring this book together, inside and out: Amy Tipton, Sara Goodman, Lisa Pompilio, A

For their kindness, keen-eyed critiques, and inspiration: Emily Hainsworth and Tiffany Schmidt.

For their listening and encouragement: CK Kelly Martin, Nova Ren Suma, and Daisy Whitney.

For the very first push in this direction: Mur Lafferty.

For the helpful e-mail about the phones: Brian Stoffer.

For their support and zombie-related enthusiasm: Kelly Jensen, Robert Kent, Will and A

For their lovely hearts and minds and for sharing them with me: Whitney Crispell, Kim Hutt, Baz Ramos, and Samantha Seals.

For more than I could ever say in this small space: Lori Thibert, TF. NRSM4L. (Shake it out!)

Thank you all. Without you, this book would not have been written.

ALSO BY COURTNEY SUMMERS

Fall for Anything

Some Girls Are

Cracked Up to Be

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Courtney Summers lives and writes in Canada. Visit her online at www.courtneysummers.ca.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

THIS IS NOT A TEST. Copyright © 2012 by Courtney Summers. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.stmartins.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Summers, Courtney.

   This is not a test / Courtney Summers.

          p. cm.

   Summary: Barricaded in Cortege High with five other teens while zombies try to get in, Sloane Price observes her fellow captives become more unpredictable and violent as time passes although they each have much more reason to live than she has.

   ISBN 978-0-312-65674-4 (pbk)

   ISBN 978-1-250-01181-7 (e-book)

 [1.  Survival—Fiction.   2.  Zombies—Fiction.   3.  Familyproblems—Fiction.   4.  High schools—Fiction.   5.  Schools—Fiction.   6.  Horror stories.]   I.  Title.

   PZ7.S95397Thi 2012

   [Fic]—dc23

2012004633

e-ISBN 9781250011817

First Edition: June 2012

Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Begin Reading

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Acknowledgments

Also by Courtney Summers

About the Author

Copyright